


Growing Pains

by TeapotTempest



Series: New Paradigm [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Growing Up, Parenthood, Slice of Life, Transformer Sparklings, baby robots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8799520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeapotTempest/pseuds/TeapotTempest
Summary: How to grow up - when no one has ever done it before.





	1. Eclosion

" _Would you like to swing on a star?_ " Jazz crooned, slipping off his berth. " _Carry moonbeams home in a jar?_ " Gave Riff in his berthside basket a pat. " _And be better off than you are? ... or would you rather be a mule?_ "

Riff, chambered all snug in his sphere plates, rocked irritably and muttered without opening up. Jazz shrugged to himself. Maybe it just wasn't a Sinatra kind of morning. He wasn't about to switch songs now, however.

" _A mule is an animal with long funny ears, he kicks up at anything he hears..._ " Jazz moseyed into his washrack and proceeded with a quick rinse-down, crooning all the way through. Riff usually liked being serenaded, and had even started trying to match notes occasionally, humming or peeping back at his parent. The thought of getting to raise a musically-inclined mechlet made Jazz just pleased as _punch_ , for sure.

" _His back is brawny and his brain is weak, he's just plain stupid with a stubborn streak—_ " A turn underneath the spray of mild solvent, then reach over to snag the little wheeled basin tucked into the corner. He let it collect the liquid as he stepped out and grabbed a towel. "— _And by the way, if you hate to go to school, you may grow up to be a mule!_ "

When he returned to the berth, Riff still hadn't come out. Jazz tapped the mechlet's shell lightly in time to the song. " _Or would you like to swing on a star?_ "

Not so much as a peep. Jazz frowned. Riff wasn't the bubbliest of the mechlets by far, but he always responded positively to Jazz, and especially to singing. But lately Riff had seemed... distracted. Frustrated, even. And the last time he'd called for fuel, the normally swiftly-devoured glob of mechlet-grade was outright refused. It was even still sitting in a sealed jar on Jazz's console for later.

"Aw, lil' bit, what's the matter?" Jazz picked up the sphere. "Quick bath and maybe some Beatles, you'll feel better..."

Jazz paused, his frown deepening. The sphere in his hands was warm. _Too_ warm. Stressed-systems warm. "Riff? Riff, c'mon, open up, are you okay? Lemme see, buddy."

No response. No murmur, no chirp or beep; not even a wobble of the inertial gyros that let a mechlet control the sphere mode. Just an uncomfortably warm and worryingly inert sphere in his hands.

Without wasting any more time, he sent a ping to the medbay and transformed with practiced ease around Riff. As soon as the mechlet was secure in the specially-made pocket just behind his front seats, he sped— carefully!— off.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

"I am very sorry, Ironhide," said First Aid, "but I'm afraid we've failed again."

Ironhide met this grave announcement with half a grin. "So the ground wire idea..."

"Did not divert enough spark energy. You're carrying."

"Oh no." Ironhide's smile broadened. "Another mechlet. Whatever will I do."

First Aid was too polite to roll his optics, hidden by visor or no. "You can accept my congratulations and open up so I can remove the wire diverter."

Ironhide obligingly unlatched his chestplates and lay back to let First Aid remove the third failed contraception experiment. "Back to ol' square one, huh?"

"Not necessarily. We learn a great deal from failures, scientifically speaking. The data from this design could be instrumental in the final product." First Aid deftly unhooked the wire and attendant energy diverter from underneath Ironhide's spark chamber. "Sending it over to Perceptor now. He's eager to begin the next iteration."

"What's the rush?" Ironhide asked. "Not like we're going to have overpopulation problems anytime soon."

"Yes, thank you, the grim reminder is a ray of sunshine, Ironhide." First Aid was not, however, above sarcasm. "Better to get a handle on things now, while we have room to grow, so to speak, than later when facing the problem of fueling an overpopulated Cybertron. History repeating itself, and all that."

"Good point."

"Anyway, you seem— hold on." First Aid cocked his head, then sighed and tut-tutted. "Jazz incoming with Riff. Honestly, it's been a week since the mechlet accidentally swallowed that poor cricket, I keep telling him he's _fine_ —"

Jazz skid-turned into the medbay and transformed, without breaking stride from wheels to feet, and held out the closed-up Riff. "He's _burning up_ , 'Aid!"

All business now, First Aid placed one sensor-laden hand on the little sphere. "...oh my, yes, that is warm. Here, let's have a look."

A special tray with a hemispherical indentation like a single-serve egg carton had been made to keep a mechlet still for the medical scanner. Riff's distrust for the intimidating machine was a common attitude among the mechlets, balanced out by others' attempts to make friends with the scanner's boom arm. The tray kept a mechlet from rolling or crawling away. But it seemed today, Riff was in no mood to attempt an escape.

First Aid smoothly paid no mind to Jazz's best helicopter impression over his shoulder as the scanner did its work and displayed Riff's vital readings. "Hmm."

" _Hmm_? What's _hmm_?" Jazz flitted anxiously to First Aid's other shoulder. "It's bad, innit?"

"First of all, calm down, or I'll ask Ironhide to sit on you."

"I'll do it," said mech chimed in, and was ignored.

"Riff's internal temperature is roughly nineteen percent higher than his baseline. A little high, but well within tolerances, even for a mechlet's more delicate systems."

"But—" Jazz danced from foot to foot. "He won't open up, he can't ventilate good in there—"

First Aid turned and put his hands on Jazz's shoulders. "Jazz, easy. It's just a mild increase in temperature. It could be a momentary aberration. It wouldn't be the first time a mechlet has done something odd and spooked a parent over nothing. Let's not panic just yet, yes?"

Jazz pouted, but switched hovering targets to Riff.

"Now, it doesn't appear as if he's suffered any sort of physical damage," First Aid continued, turning back to the readout. "Nanite activity is elevated, which might explain the extra heat... hmm."

Jazz frowned. "You really gotta stop goin' _hmm_."

"I'm sending the scans to the Nest medlab. Perhaps Ratchet can— oh."

As if summoned by his name, Ratchet's comm pinged both First Aid and Jazz. _/Mechlet presents with slight overheating, unresponsive, shell closed. By any chance has Riff been more moody than usual, refused to take fuel recently?/_

 _/Uh, yeah, pretty much,/_ Jazz replied, surprised. _/How'd you know?/_

_/He'd be the fourth mechlet doing that exact same thing right now. I need you to bring Riff down to the Nest so we can observe them all at once./_

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

"Make that ten," Hook greeted the medical team without preamble. "Along with Grip, Boomer, Imp, and Riff, we've just added Turn, Rivet, Chatter, Odds, Boost, and Pebble."

"Excepting the three we have in-carry, all the mechlets emerged at roughly the same time." Ratchet activated the holotable and called up a graph of mechlet stats. "These ten are exhibiting identical symptoms. Since they have no way of accessing other systems I'm confident we can rule out a viral cause. I think we can safely assume when they do something en masse like this, it could be an indicator of a developmental milestone of some kind."

"Gizmo refused his fuel just an hour ago. I left him in recharge, but I have a feeling when I get back..." Wheeljack ran a hand over his mask.

Perceptor entered the room just then, making his way to the table. "I believe I have some good news, my fellows, or at least something to alleviate our worries."

Detailed medical scans replaced the graph. Perceptor brought one to focus: two tiny processors, alight with activity both data and nanite in nature, but one marginally bigger and more complex.

"Here," said Perceptor, indicating the smaller processor, "is a scan taken a week after emergence. And this other one, twenty minutes ago, from little Riff. Notice the difference?"

"Well, yes, we've known the processors were being built up," Hook said, scowling through the floating images at Perceptor. "What does that mean?"

"Ah, but while the mind has grown, the frame has remained relatively unchanged in these past eighteen months." Perceptor changed the display again. "Think about what's in mechlet grade, other than energon. Base metal nanoparticles, and active nanite cultures. I've determined that approximately half of each serving's nanite dose has gone straight to the processor to supply neural crystals and construct the appropriate circuitry. That leaves the rest of the donated nanites to attend to development of the body. However—"

"Not enough to really do a whole lot, I see what you're saying," mused Wheeljack. "They don't self-replicate enough to keep up, so we have to keep resupplying them with every feeding." He turned to Hook. "Humans do a similar thing with breastmilk, actually, there's these things called antibodies that..."

At Hook's pointed glare, Wheeljack petered off and shrugged. The Decepticon medic redirected his glare, downgraded to annoyed stare, back to Perceptor. "Get to the point, Autobot."

"I _was_ ," huffed Perceptor, but called up a few additional images anyway. "The mechlets' processors have reached a level of sophistication as to be capable of more than merely regulating the body and maintaining the spark. Moreover, the ones who have entered this hibernative state show nanite colonies that have reached sufficient numbers to be self-sustaining."

Hook snapped his fingers in realization. "A _ha_ , so they no longer require mechlet grade, or at least any more donated nanite cultures. Because the _body_ is about to catch up with the _mind_."

Ratchet had been studying the additional scans with great interest and was slowly grinning. "Well, mechs,"  he said. "I hope everyone's enjoyed this stage of their mechlets. Looks like the next one's here."

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

"You're telling me this is _normal?_ "

Jazz looked up at Breakdown's incredulous yelp from across the room. "Mech, we ain't been in normal's orbit since the end of the Golden Age," he drawled, and looked back down at his own datapad. "Here be dragons, that's for sure."

"Here be... what the dross are you on about?" Dead End grumbled.

Jazz stopped just short of retorting with "just fragging Google it" and instead hit the local public comm channel with a link to a Wikipedia article explaining the idiom. He was rewarded with a room-wide pause and a muted "oohhhh..." from every Decepticon present.

"Lemme see if I've got this right," said Smokescreen, like every other parent in the room trying to make sense of the overview of the medical findings that had been sent to everyone's inbox. "They're all closing up because their frames are getting bigger? Or something. Primus, Odds' seams have _sealed shut_ , how's he going to get out?"

Jazz peered at the quiescent sphere that was Riff. Sure enough, some of the seams were slowly smoothing over. "Maybe it's like some Earth insects? They'll bust out when they're done."

"Oh! Like maggots," Dead End nodded.

Jazz's visor flickered. "... I was goin' for caterpillars, but sure..."

Dead End noticed the odd looks he was catching from everyone present and wilted in on himself slightly. "What? Patrol's really boring. Sometimes I find roadkill. Shut up."

"Hook says their frames are catching up to their processors," Scavenger was saying. "I thought for sure Rivet was trying to talk yesterday, but he just got cranky."

"That does make sense," replied Prowl. "If your mind is ready and able to perform a task but your systems are not fully functional, that would indeed be frustrating."

Jazz shifted his attention back to his data pad and the warm plating of Riff's shell under his hand. There were attachment points forming, according to the scans, along the arms, legs, and over the helm, connecting to the outer sphere plating. The warmth, he noted, was not consistent, but more concentrated in small spots scattered over the surface of the sphere. In a quote-unquote regular mech, this was usually a side effect of high nanite activity, such as when self-repair kicked in. Weld scars tended to stay hot long after the torch was done, for instance. It was, more or less, the Cybertronian equivalent of a human's immune system triggering a fever to combat illness. Unpleasant, but necessary, especially during the war when resource scarcity meant you sometimes couldn't just get rid of the damaged bit and slap a fresh plate of armor on anytime.

"Poor bit," Jazz murmured, running his hand over Riff's shell. "Prolly don't feel so good. But don't you worry none. Just... just come back soon, okay?"

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Jazz started out of a sound recharge at a tap at his knee. It took him a solid second to remember what planet he was on, and why he had dropped offline sitting in a chair instead of on his berth. A whole second—  for a spec ops mech, an embarrassment! " _Fzzzh— whodat—_ "

"Whoa, Jazz, it's just me." Sparkplug.

Jazz dialed back on the panic-fight protocols queuing up in his processor. Probably a bad habit to keep, but mingling freely with so many Decepticons on the regular and not bedeviling the living daylights out of them was messing with what most of his life told him was the natural order of things. He'd instead spent the last thirty-six hours fretting over Riff, pacing, sitting, fidgeting, more fretting, re-reading the same three paragraphs from the medical report without actually comprehending any of the glyphs, more pacing, fidgeting, and, for variety, some worrying. He couldn't actually remember when he'd moved himself and Riff into a small private room and dropped into recharge.

"Hey, Sparkplug. How's it shakin'?"

The human's eyebrows went up and he shrugged. "You tell me, buddy. Heard you guys had some kids under the weather, thought I'd help out if I could." Sparkplug jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where a small hoversled with a few small cubes of energon waited by the door. "Room service?"

Jazz grinned. "Sparkplug, my man, you are a peach." He stood with a twang or two from unkinking cables— sitting slumped over a berth with one arm curled around a sphere wasn't exactly the ideal recharge posture— and retrieved a cube. He checked the datapad for any updates and noted that now a total of nineteen mechlets had fallen into this feverish stasis lock mode.

"How ya holding up?"

Jazz shook his head. "T'be honest, I ain't. I'm half afraid this _isn't_ supposed to be happening like Ratch and the others are saying. What if it's... maybe it's something we did, or didn't do right, and... just hate all this waiting." Worry and fear vied for top spot in his expression.

Sparkplug chuckled softly and shook his head. "Yeah, that's the look. Every single one of you's got it. Oh, I've been there."

Jazz, half-reseated in his chair, cube in one hand and the other back resting on Riff's shell, paused. "Been... where Spike sealed himself up in a spherical exoshell and overheated."

"Smartass. But close enough." The hoversled was riding close enough to the floor that Sparkplug could use it as an impromptu bench, and he did so now. "Man, this has got to be scary and confusing to you all. A whole passel of first-time single parents and not a guidebook in sight."

Jazz leveled a tired smirk at the human. "Just a tad smug there, huh?"

"No, I mean it," Sparkplug insisted, spreading his hands. "I've been exactly where you are right now. Spike spent his fourth birthday in the hospital with the nastiest bronchitis I'd ever seen. He followed that up with some pretty spectacular pneumonia the Christmas right after that. And there's me, by myself, without the first blessed clue what I was doing with a _healthy_ kid, let alone one in a hospital bed. I mean, the fate of an interstellar conflict wasn't at stake, but I was pretty sure at any given time I was going to see a newspaper with a headline like _Area Man Worst Dad, Wife Back From Dead For Sole Purpose Of Being Disappointed In Person_."

Despite himself, Jazz barked a laugh. "But Spike got better, though. Didn't have to worry about that anymore."

"Well, sure. Then he broke his arm doing tricks on his bike when he was seven. Then he got food poisoning from swapping lunches with a friend at school. Then he got bit by a snake on a camping trip." Sparkplug smirked. "Then the oil rig he was working at was attacked and sunk by aliens..."

"Darn pesky aliens. Someone should give 'em whatfor."

"My point is, better get used to worrying." Sparkplug got back to his feet and gestured up at Riff. "Especially since it might be that one's about to be a little bigger and a lot more mobile soon, if Wheeljack's projections are right."

Jazz checked his datapad for updates. Sure enough, there were holocaptures of a distinctly lumpy-looking mechlet shell (likely Gizmo) and notes referring to something about articulation and nanites. "Yeah, I was afraid of that. It's... well, I can see he's not like what a newspark used to be. The idea of the new members of a species being tiny and helpless and dependent was kind of abstract for us, y'know? That was something that happened to _other_ races, organic life and whatnot."

Sparkplug nodded. "You could get away with not thinking about it at all, what with walking out of Vector Sigma ready to go fresh out of the box, so to speak."

"You didn't have to worry about a newspark, outside of him bein' awkward and naïve, and maybe watch for those early programming faults. If something happened to a mentor... Well, he could make decisions, go make his own way, or at least try to. But this..." Jazz vented and ran a hand over Riff's plating, then turned to Sparkplug with a hopeful grin, his visor bright. "Still! Good thing this craziness happened here, with you humans around. You've been doin' this parent thing for so long, you gotta be experts at it, right?"

Sparkplug laughed so hard he had to sit back down on the hoversled. "Jazz. Oh boy," he said once he'd recovered enough to speak, "My son's almost grown, so my job as a father is pretty much done. And I _still_ don't know what the hell I'm doing."

Not for the first time since Riff's emergence, Jazz felt the universe tilt ever so slightly. He watched Sparkplug leave to go deliver the rest of the energon around, then looked back to the warm lump of metal that was his offspring.

"... we're doomed, aren't we."

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

At about forty hours in, Jazz noticed the warping. He hadn't wanted to leave Riff to go look at the other mechlets' shells, or carry him around for fear the movement might disrupt whatever delicate process was at work, but the scans and still images of the other mechlets showed warped surfaces, seams smoothed over or veering off at odd angles. Jazz had to quash the awful thought that it looked as if they were melting. And Riff was no different; if he tried to roll around now, he'd wobble and halt, no longer perfectly spherical.

Every parent was being assured by Ratchet and Hook and the others that the mechlets were in no distress, that the distortions were following a distinct and deliberate pattern, indicating that this, like the integration of the gestation upgrades, was by design.

Soon, Jazz began to see exactly what that design was. Riff's shell slowly went from lumpy underinflated soccer ball to a shape with much more purpose and symmetry to it. The hills and valleys, the seams reappearing; once Jazz found the right angle to look at, he could see the rounded outline of arms and legs, and a little nubby helm. The sphere of the gestational chamber was _reshaping into proper armor_.

There was a solid half-hour in which Jazz could barely contain himself. Spurts of random music escaped his sound system and he paced in ridiculous random half-circles, trying to contain the urge to transform and speed around to tell all the other parents what he'd figured out. Most of them already knew, thanks to updates from the medical team. But still. Riff was going to be able to stand up! Walk around! Maybe... maybe even _talk!_

Jazz couldn't _wait_.

... but he was going to have to. Just because he could discern the vague shape didn't mean Riff was anywhere near ready to hop up and start dancing that exact minute.

It still took a run-through at low volume of Queen's complete discography for Jazz to wind back down. Just under forty-eight hours, and he tried to recharge again, lying down this time, with Riff carefully nestled against his side. Rest eluded him, however.

At sixty hours, Riff was much more mech than sphere, armor formed around arms and legs. He was still curled up in a tight ball, there wasn't a single hard corner, and not a bit of him budged. Jazz couldn't even see his face.

Word was that now twenty-nine mechlets were in various stages of this transitional state. None had yet roused from it. Gently stroking what was now Riff's back, Jazz softly sang, and finally dropped off into recharge.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Seventy-one hours after Riff had sealed himself up, Jazz was prompted awake by the standard alert he'd had established to bring him out of recharge at movement from his mechlet.

Blearily— the weird hours weren't doing his processor any favors— Jazz started to move his arm to feel for Riff at his side. There was something clinging to his forearm, blocked from view by his bumper.

A noise and flash of movement from the doorway drew his attention, and to his surprise, there stood a tiny mech.

He stood on unsteady swaying legs, rounded shiny armor plating not fully covering large patches of mechlet-matte. He clung to the door frame and stared back at Jazz with a face that, though smaller and simpler, now bore an even stronger resemblance to Prowl.

When Jazz let out a quiet incredulous laugh, the mechlet at the door grinned back, little winglet panels on his back flaring.

" _Imp!_ " Before Jazz could sit up or even say anything, Prowl's voice came from down the corridor. With a squeak and a scramble, Imp was off, running in the opposite direction. 'Running' being more 'clumsy stomp-flailing' for a freshly-awakened mechlet, apparently. Prowl himself came past the doorway not a moment later at an unhurried walk, and after a few seconds there came another squeak from around the corner, followed by high-pitched shrieking laughter.

_/Got yourself a runner there, eh Prowler?/_

_/On the one hand, he is alert, active, and well-coordinated, and I am very pleased./_ Prowl's harmonics were calm, but the happiest Jazz had heard in a long time. _/On the other hand... I fear I may need a leash./_

Jazz snorted, and carefully sat up. There between his arm and his side was Riff, right where he'd been, but now, Riff had one arm hugging Jazz's forearm and his head nestled in Jazz's loosely open hand. Was he bigger? He certainly seemed lankier, at least, though that could have only seemed so because he was no longer curled up into a perfect compact little ball.

Riff stirred, blinked sleepy blue optics up at Jazz.

Jazz retracted his visor. "Hey there, Riff. How ya feelin'?"

Riff smiled back at him, and Jazz was taken aback. His mechlet had changed, all right, not just reshaping his shell into armor, but his features were more refined. That little smile was like looking at his own reflection.

Riff drew his legs up, smile dropping into a confused expression. The mechlet curled halfway up and wriggled for a moment, then frowned. Jazz held back a laugh, recognizing the posture.

"Well, you're not a roly-poly anymore, kiddo," he said, gently scooping the little mech up in both hands. Riff's legs dangled, unencumbered by a shell that was no longer there, and Jazz set him down feet-first on the berth. "See, there? Bet you'll be runnin' me ragged like Prowl in no time."

Riff gaped down at his newly-armored frame, then up at Jazz again with a face that clearly said ' _what shiny nonsense is this?_ ' and let out a sharp little chirp when Jazz tried to let go to leave him standing on his own. The mechlet immediately dropped to all fours and clambered into Jazz's lap.

Jazz chuckled and picked him up again, this time supporting him under his arms while standing him up. Riff muttered, pulling up one leg, then the other, looking up at Jazz as if to say ' _just what am I supposed to do with these, huh?_ '

"You'll get the hang of it," Jazz assured him, and let Riff down into a sitting position on his outstretched leg. "Just look at you now, though. All armored up!"

Riff, holding onto Jazz's hand for balance, gave him another small smile. 'All armored up' wasn't quite accurate; the thin matte plating of his chest and parts of his upper arms and thighs were still exposed. Aside from that, and the fact that there still wasn't a hard corner anywhere on him, Riff could now, at a distance, be mistaken for a _very_ small unpainted mech. Jazz gently touched one of the nubby sensory horns atop Riff's head and was rewarded with a squeak and a giggle.

Perhaps he should give Riff a basic paint job, if his chromatophore nanites didn't kick in soon. Drones were usually left unpainted, and he didn't want anyone assuming Riff was one of those sparkless tools. He decided against it, after a moment's consideration. Drones, excepting for Shockwave's swarm, were luxuries once used by the rich and elite who didn't want the fuss of hiring actual people for their everyday drudgery. There weren't a whole lot of that class of mechanisms left, and those who were still around after all this time and war really weren't so rich or elite these days.

And besides, half a klik around Riff and it was clear he was no drone. He was too animated, to begin with, his face too expressive. And a drone wouldn't suddenly try to climb up underneath one's bumper as Riff was attempting now, humming a string of tuneless notes.

Jazz laughed as he extracted Riff back out, holding him up close to his face. "Let's go see who else is up and about. Bet some of the other parents would like to see what's in store, and you can try that fancy new 'walking' thing. Sound good, Riff?"

Riff made a curious noise and grabbed Jazz's nose.

"Heh. And maybe your ol' Jazz can scare up some energon."

Riff cocked his head to one side, blinked his optics, and opened his mouth.

"... Jazz?"

The universe tilted again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eclosion: n. The act of emerging from the pupal state.


	2. Toddler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultra Magnus arrives on Earth and discovers peace has broken out... and he must somehow figure out what a toddler is, if not 'tiny drunk person'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, not the fastest writer on earth am I! It takes me so long to write because: full time job, saving up for a house down payment, voice acting gig, political tire-fire going on in my nation's capitol... some nights all I have the mental fortitude for is a bit of WoW before bed, I'm sure my lovely readers understand.
> 
> But never fear, I am still on this delightful story. Silly kinkmeme prompt and then Plot Ensued. Will do my best to respond to comments when I can, but rest assured I read them all and each one just tickles me to death. Thank you all for the kudos and squeeing over baby robots.
> 
> And here we go!

_"Ultra Magnus. It is so good to hear your voice again, my friend."_

_"Likewise, Prime. We received your message but it was badly corrupted due to degradation in the pulsewave network. There were references to a peace treaty of some sort and a number of newcomers, but nothing clarifying which faction the new recruits were bolstering. We thought it prudent to investigate and confirm rather than make assumptions."_

_"I see. I am happy to confirm that Megatron and I and our officers have indeed reached a formal armistice."_

_"Prime, that's... that's incredible. How?"_

_"Our... new recruits... have quite a lot to do with it, actually."_

_"I don't understand."_

_"I'll brief you once Omega Supreme has landed. What has happened here cannot properly be conveyed in a mere databurst. And... there is one 'recruit' in particular I want you to meet."_

  


-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  


Optimus Prime and his chief medical officer met Ultra Magnus at the landing site outside a modest settlement of Cybertronian make. Magnus could spot a few other mechs moving about in the periphery among the buildings but otherwise his arrival was private and held no ceremony. The rest of Magnus' contingent remained aboard Omega at Ratchet's request— despite the groanings of mechs too long cooped up together in space.

"Welcome to Earth," Prime greeted him warmly, and Magnus smiled as he accepted Optimus' outstretched hand.

"Thank you. We've been too long away from our Prime." He acknowledged the CMO with a nod. "Ratchet. Good to see you again. You mentioned a medical quarantine, is my crew in any danger?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Ratchet brusquely waved him off and headed towards where Omega and his passengers waited. "It's more a matter of disclosure than anything else."

Disclosure...? Magnus filed it away as a formality to be observed and did not impede Ratchet further. He turned back to Optimus. "How fragile is the situation, Prime?"

Optimus motioned for Magnus to walk with him. "Much more stable than you'd think, I daresay. This peace treaty is unlike any truce we have had before, old friend. Something... happened to us here. Something I can only describe as miraculous, and something so extraordinary that Megatron himself was the one to propose armistice."

Magnus stared at his leader. "I'm afraid I don't follow. Is it that the new mechs you mentioned joined the Autobots and Megatron subsequently realized he could not prevail? How many?" And where had they come from? Another contingent like his own, starfaring since the exodus?

"Forty-five." Optimus was watching him from the corner of his optics as they walked. "Forty-five newsparks."

Magnus' vents stuttered. "Newsparks?" Was the miracle that they had recovered an intact, previously thought lost Key to Vector Sigma?

Optimus nodded. "And though some are under Decepticon care, some Autobot, they are neutral. This is _key_ , Magnus. They are neutral, non-combatant, vulnerable _civilians_ , every one of them, no matter who they came from."

The phrasing was so odd Magnus actually stopped walking. " _Who_ they... _came from_? Prime, I don't understand."

"This may come as a shock, but Vector Sigma is no more." Optimus stopped as well. "Dismantled, or reabsorbed into Cybertron's Core, most likely. The newsparks here— we call them—"

 _Clank._ Something hit Ultra Magnus' shin plating.

"Pretty blue!" chirped a comically high-pitched voice.

Magnus, startled, looked down. A silver mech barely the size of his foot had wrapped short arms around his lower leg. Magnus felt the telltale tingle of magnetic fields on his armor, and the tiny unpainted mech began effortlessly climbing towards his knee. A malfunctioning drone? No, it couldn't be— who, these days, would program a drone to look and sound so convincingly delighted?

"Blue," the little one said, grinning widely up at Magnus as he inched ever higher. "Pretty blue! Hi! You blue!"

"What in the—" Magnus, trying to juggle the revelation of Vector Sigma's loss and process the inane babbling of this spectacularly inappropriately-behaved mech, leaned down intending to forcibly pry him off, but Optimus reached out and stayed his hand.

"It's all right, Magnus. This is one of the newsparks. As I was saying... we call them mechlets."

Mechlet. The glyph 'mech' with modifiers denoting newness, smallness, and fragility. Magnus had never heard the word before. Not 'newspark' which implied mere inexperience.

"Prime! Hi! Hi!" chattered the... mechlet, as Optimus knelt down. "Look, it blue. I found blue."

"Yes, Grip, I see," Optimus replied, as if being let in on a wondrous discovery. "You found my friend, actually. His name is Ultra Magnus."

"Urtur Maggis pretty blue."

Magnus had to reboot his vocalizer to stave off an indignant spurt of static. "Incorrect. My designation's _proper_ pronunciation—"

"Magnus, easy," Optimus chided gently, a hand on the mechlet's back. "You'll find dealing with mechlets requires patience and indulgence. In spades. As we're all learning, right, Grip?"

 _You're telling me this Grip's atrocious grammar and lack of personal boundaries_ isn't _the result of a high-grade bender?_ is what Magnus badly wanted to say.

"Now, where's your parent, hmm?" Optimus was asking, and Magnus again noted the neologism. 'Creator' and 'mentor' layered into a single glyph. But there was no time to make a firm request to explain exactly what was going on _without the frankly silly new vocabulary list for Primus' sake if you please with all due respect Prime_ as a stocky grey-and-red mech trotted around a corner.

" _There_ you are!" the mech he recognized as one Windcharger of Kalis, if he recalled correctly, exclaimed, making directly for the absurdity currently magnetized to Ultra Magnus' leg. "C'mere, you little escape artist. How'd you get over the gate this time?"

Ignoring the clear reprimand, Grip wiggled excitedly. "Hi! Windy! Hi!"

Windcharger belatedly noticed to whom the mechlet was currently attached and flipped a quick salute. "Oh! Uh, welcome to Earth, Ultra Magnus sir! Sorry about the cling-on. Been trying to teach him to at least ask before he does that."

"Windy— it blue, Maggis pretty blue!"

Windcharger made the most curious face and refused to meet Ultra Magnus' optics, instead bending down to give Grip a gentle tug. There was another tingle as magnetics disengaged and the tiny mech released his... grip (well, of course) without protest. "You can't just koala up people's legs, c'mon now. Say sorry."

"Blue?"

Windcharger made the face again. "We'll work on it."

Magnus watched as Windcharger strolled off with Grip perched on a shoulder, and turned to his leader. "Prime, what— why would a mech be built so fragile? I could _see_ how thin his plating was. And— forgive me if this is insensitive but— that one needs a thorough debugging if... Optimus, this isn't funny."

Optimus' rumbling chuckle stopped with a hiss of vents being cleared. "I'm sorry, old friend. Sometimes it's easy to forget how strange all of this is. Come— I'll explain on the way to the Nest."

Minutes later, Optimus finished speaking, and they stood at the entrance to a large building at the center of the settlement. Seconds ticked by as Magnus attempted to process the tale he'd just been told.

"You... _bore_ one of them."

"That's correct."

"And it's possible to confer this... upgrade... to others via interface."

"Also correct."

"And bring about more... mechlets." Magnus ran a hand down his faceplates. "The medical quarantine makes sense now."

"We can discuss the particulars inside. I promised him I wouldn't be long, but his sense of time is still rather shaky," Optimus said, "but before we go in, Magnus— there are Decepticons present. They are entitled to be here and make use of the facilities. They are as much in support of the Armistice as we."

Magnus nodded crisply. "Understood, Prime."

Within the entrance was a second set of doors, this one with a short barrier across the bottom third, a design choice that puzzled Magnus. Optimus keyed open the inner doors and they slid apart, the lower barrier slotting neatly down out of the way. There were several mechs standing about in the central room, singly and chatting in pairs, a few of them bearing Decepticon sigils as Optimus had warned. Several battle-ready protocols were queuing up in Magnus' processor out of pure habit and he started to put together a mental assessment of the capabilities and proclivities of the enemy combatants— but put the process on standby.

There was, after all, a treaty. Ultra Magnus would not be the one to break it, but he would certainly be ready if any Decepticon did.

However, it seemed as if everyone, Decepticons included, had their hands full. At least a dozen of these mechlets were scurrying about underfoot, and suddenly the low door barrier made sense. The noise level in the room was something akin to a lively cycle at Maccadam's, if the cheerfully overcharged had vocalizers tuned to absurdly high octaves.

Most activity in the room had paused the moment Magnus had appeared, and all optics turned to the newcomer.

The Autobots present sketched quick but amiable salutes and a chorus of _welcome to Earth_ went around the room. A few of the Decepticons even offered wary but respectful nods.

The mechlets' reactions were much less reserved. The nonsensical chattering briefly climbed in volume and pitch. More than one made squeaky noises and ran for the nearest  mech's leg. There was a tangle of— three? four?— mechlets who paused what appeared to be a wrestling match to stare at Magnus, while another mechlet sitting in the midst of a pile of artfully (but pointlessly) stacked blocks merely looked over his shoulder at Magnus, noted him, and turned back to place another piece. One bold individual, red-optic'd and clutching a little effigy of a seeker crafted from foam and fabric, approached and peered up at Magnus.

"Biiiiiiiig," the winged mechlet informed him, then grinned and ran off, plush seeker flailing about.

"Optimus!" One mechlet, apparently unaffected by the novelty of a stranger in their midst, squirmed out of the grasp of the arms of an Autobot who hastily bent to put the little one safely down. The mechlet ran straight into Optimus' waiting hands.

"Up you get," Optimus said, catching the giggling mechlet and depositing him on one broad shoulder. The Prime then turned to Magnus. "Come. It'll be a little less chaotic out in the atrium."

"... of course," Magnus replied, only now noticing the noises coming from the various open doorways (some with mechlet-baffle-gates up as well). The echoes of many more high-pitched vocalizers filtering into this central room painted quite the picture in Magnus' processor.

He watched the little mech on his Prime's shoulder as he followed them through another doorway.

"Did you recharge today?" Optimus quietly queried the mechlet as they walked.

"Uh huh. Bee read a story."

"Oh? Tell me about it."

"Um... a cat and he had things."

"That sounds like fun. Have you had energon?"

"A loooong time ago!"

"This morning?"

"Uh huh."

A chuckle. "Don't worry, I've got a cube for you in just a moment, all right?"

"Okay!"

 _A cube?_ Magnus wondered, noting the size of the mechlet. _To what, bathe in?_

They entered an open area sheltered on all sides by what were likely living quarters or an extension of this Nest facility to judge by the presence of more half-gated doorways. The mechlet, holding onto Optimus' shoulder smokestack pipe for balance, turned his helm and stared right back, seemingly unbothered by the stern skepticism Magnus was radiating.

"Who that?" the mechlet chirped.

Optimus turned to face Magnus as they came to a grouping of benches at one end of the atrium. "Who is that?" he repeated, subtly emphasizing the proper phrasing. "That is a very good friend of mine who has come to visit Earth. His designation is Ultra Magnus." He sat down on a bench and lowered the mechlet from his shoulder to settle him in his lap. "And this, Magnus, is my mechlet. I call him Dion."

Magnus, halfway into sitting on the bench opposite, froze for a moment. That was a name he hadn't heard in a war's age, since before an attack on his spacedock workplace had necessitated a whole-frame reformat and the course of his life and those of his dear friends Orion and Ariel had changed forever.

"Hi," said... Dion.

Magnus' vocalizer briefly refused to spit out any words. _/Optimus, I don't understand. How is his designation... that?/_

 _/They don't yet know their true designations. Either they need to develop more fully, or they simply can't properly articulate it if they do know. So in the interim, the parent— that is, the mech who carried— chooses a temporary name./_ Optimus' mask retracted as he reached into his subspace. _/Here on Earth the native sentients often name their offspring after loved ones as a way to honor the elder... or remember them./_

_/I— Primus, I don't know what to say./_

Optimus pulled out a tiny cube of energon— tiny as in barely an eighth the size of a standard ration— and offered it to the mechlet in his lap. The little cube had some sort of nozzle or spout affixed to a corner and a handle on one side. _/I'm just glad you're here./_

Magnus looked down at the mechlet, who had eagerly seized the cube and bitten down on the nozzle— it was some kind of flexible valve designed to open when compressed in such a way. Clever design, when it became clear by the way Dion sloshed his fuel about that an open cube would be an instant mess.

"I am... honored to meet you, Dion."

"Mm?" The nozzle popped out of Dion's mouth and a thin line of energon ran down his chin. Optimus was so quick with a cleaning cloth that Magnus could only assume this was a common occurrence.

"It means he's happy to meet you," Optimus said, a smirk on his uncovered faceplates, "but in a _serious_ way."

Magnus did not bother to mute his snort of static. Dion grinned at him and pointed. "Blue!"

"So I've been told," Magnus replied, glancing up at Optimus. "Is there some significance to my armor color, or...?"

Optimus half-shrugged and held Dion steady as the mechlet tipped back to drink again from the customized cube. "Only in that he's learning to identify colors. Not a great feat to you or I, but to the mechlets it represents a significant leap in their understanding of the world, at least from their perspective."

Ultra Magnus shook his head. The concept of color wasn't something one had to _learn_. One onlined with base programming that covered such basic things— along with language. "Optimus, help me understand this. They seem unnecessarily stunted. They can barely speak. Why were the mechlets so... sparsely programmed? Who wrote this code?"

"No one. Well, not exactly— here, Dion, let me hold that," Optimus said, plucking away the half-empty cube as Dion squirmed and scuttled down off the bench and onto the ground. "Remember the gestation process I told you about?  A mechlet's processor is assembled one neural crystal at a time, nanite by nanite. When they emerge, the processor does little more than operate the frame's essential systems. Dion's first real word was only a few scant months ago. Now he's grasping new words and phrases every day, far faster that any of us anticipated. They are not stunted, Magnus. They are growing, and programming _themselves_."

As Dion wandered about, squatting to investigate something in the carpet of short green organic strands, Magnus quietly boggled. Programming themselves? As in writing and editing their own base code... _on the fly?_ "How many times have they crashed?"

"None," Optimus replied. At Magnus' incredulous look, he gave a slight smile and spread his hands. "Not one of them has had even a minor cognitive error."

"How? Everyone has at least a few programming faults to work out when they're new. I had two crashes within a joor of coming online."

"You'd have to ask Perceptor about the finer points, but we think it's because they begin so... simply. And grow gradually, instead of bringing a new full system online all at once." Optimus leaned forward, watching Dion with a thoughtful expression. "I know he seems hopelessly fragile and nearly unintelligible to you. But... I believe this is a turn for us. As a people. How we approach new members of our species. How we will relate to one another."

"If what you say about Vector Sigma is true, Prime, then our usual reproductive protocols are obsolete." Magnus thought carefully, optics on Dion as well. "This is more than a new prototyping method. It's an entirely new paradigm."

"We lost or destroyed all functional Keys," said Prime. "The loss of Vector Sigma was merely an ultimatum. As long as it still existed there would always be the possibility, however remote, that we might recover a Key, or find a workaround. It would always be a contested resource, a focus for conflict, or used as leverage or a means of control. As it had in the past, if you recall history."

"The priests at Simfur," Magnus said, nodding. "Not a few of which were politically entangled. I see your point."

"Vector Sigma's disappearance and the mechlets' coming..." Prime mused, optics unfocused, "it is a disruption, a break in the patterns of our war. This was by all appearances a carefully engineered plan."

"But... by whom, and why now? Why not sooner, if..."

Optimus shook his head. "You aren't alone in asking these questions, old friend. And the Matrix cannot answer them, no matter how deeply I delve. I intend to go to what I suspect is the source."

Magnus, trusting his Prime but bracing for something... unorthodox, asked "By which you mean..."

"As soon as we regain access to Cybertron's space bridge, I will make a pilgrimage to the Core and ask Primus himself."

 _And there it is._ Magnus could only chuckle incredulously. "Well. If anyone could wake that great spark from eternal stasis, Optimus, it would be you."

"It wouldn't be the craziest thing I've ever done, and you know it, thank you very much," Optimus retorted in kind. "And besides... I have my suspicions that I may not have to shout very loudly to get his attention these d— Dion, what have you got there?"

The little mechlet had been so quiet Magnus had nearly forgotten he was there. Dion held up a hand and grinned triumphantly. "Found a ladybug!"

Magnus had to magnify his visual input, zooming in on a speck moving slowly across the back of Dion's hand. It was a minuscule organic arthropod, domed carapace in bright red and spotted with black.

"How lovely," Optimus remarked, leaning forward to admire Dion's prize. "Remember, be gentle with organics."

"No squishing," Dion agreed. Then he turned and proffered the ladybug to Magnus for display. "Magnus be gentle," the mechlet admonished, in as grave a tone as his high voice would allow. "Don't squish."

"I promise, I will not harm your... ladybug." Magnus dutifully examined the creature, though he didn't quite grasp the appeal. "It is a native lifeform, I assume?"

"That's right," Optimus put in when Dion looked momentarily confused. "Ladybugs live here on Earth. Do you remember where I said people like us come from, Dion?"

"Ummm..." Dion's face was a mask of intense concentration. "Cybertron."

Optimus smiled and briefly rested a hand over Dion's head; the tiny round helm all but disappeared in the massive palm. "Exactly right, little one."

Dion giggled, dancing out from underneath Optimus' hand. "Not little, you're big!" Then a gasp. "Ladybug flew away!"

"I'm sure it had important things to do. Many aphids to eat in the garden," Optimus said, but Dion had already lost the thread.

"Snail!" The mechlet exclaimed, dropping back down to hands and knees.

"Snails don't like to be bothered, so let's just watch this one, all right?" Optimus said, adding in an undertone, "... and not put any in your vents again..."

Magnus decided he'd rather not know. "I'll need to see a copy of the treaty. I'm concerned Megatron may decide to exploit the mechlets' vulnerability, even if some of his Decepticons have them."

"I don't think that will be a problem, Magnus. Not so long as he has one of his own." Optimus quirked half a smile.

Magnus tried to picture Megatron with a tiny silver mechlet. Tried to imagine the warlord being as patient and accommodating as Optimus with such unfocused and scattershot behavior. Magnus' processor rejected the scenario as improbable fiction.

"Named him Pax," Optimus went on, smile broadening, clearly enjoying the short circuit he was trying to make Magnus have, the fragger. "As I said, Megatron was the one to approach me for the armistice. He has a very personal stake in it himself, after all."

"Pax?" Dion piped up, peeking out from underneath Magnus' bench. "Pax is coming?"

"Soon," Optimus replied. "His parent and I have a lot to talk about with Magnus. I'm sure he'll bring Pax."

Magnus reset his optics. "They're friends?"

"Dion has yet to meet anyone who _isn't_ his friend," Optimus said, "but yes, he and Megatron's mechlet get along quite well. Remember, Magnus, they are neither Autobot nor Decepticon. That is for them to choose for themselves when they reach maturity, which could be several decivorn from now."

"And if Autobots' mechlets choose Decepticon?"

"It is my hope," Optimus said carefully, "that they choose neither."

Magnus was silent. He had a great deal to consider.

Orion had always been a little on the near side of mad, but in the empathetic way that won him friends and the favor of their superiors at the spacedocks. Becoming Optimus Prime had only slightly emphasized his tendency to make right-angle turns in thought, and it was in no small part thanks to this slight edge of unpredictability, an unwillingness to adhere slavishly to status quo, that the Autobots had survived this long. Ultra Magnus had long ago learned to trust his old friend's uncommon intuition, even if he did not understand it at first.

And there was certainly something endearing about these strange, effervescent little mechs,  these _mechlets_. He would have to watch their development closely.

Magnus stood. "Whatever comes, Prime, you know you have my support. Now, I should get back to Omega and brief my crew before they disembark. Although I don't know how I am going to propose a protocol of celibacy to that lot."

"Oh, I'm sure Ratchet has already filled them in by now. We have, in fact, developed a kind of contraceptive modification. So your mechs can freely engage in interfacing without having to worry about taking on the responsibility of a mechlet, if that is their choice."

Primus below. Magnus scrubbed a hand down his face, watching Dion give chase after another tiny organic creature, this one a round-bodied fuzzy yellow-and-black flier. Magnus just knew the instant some certain members of his crew laid optics on a mechlet they'd want one or twenty of their own. Hot Rod, caring for a helpless innocent, the very idea. Magnus' processor began to ache, ever so slightly.

"Don't worry," smirked Optimus Prime, bearer of the Matrix, emissary of Primus, leader of their people. "The contraceptive mod is _mostly_ effective. A work in progress, I'm told."

"Optimus, I say this with utmost respect... but don't think I won't hit you over the helm."

Optimus laughed heartily and stood as well. Dion dashed over, drawn by the laughter, and Optimus reached down to scoop the mechlet up. "How would you like to meet some more mechs? Let's go see who else wants to come, shall we?"

Magnus hurried after the merry pair. If there was no hope of containing the impending chaos, at the very least he could try to study and adapt to it. It promised to be a chaos of peacetime, however, not one of war.

He could definitely learn to live with that.


	3. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories work a little differently for the newest children of Cybertron.

“And once it’s all the way in, give it a quarter turn...” Ratchet loosely held Fix’s hand in his own, gently guiding the subtle motion of plugging a wrist cable into a datapad. “Feel that click? That means it’s connected properly.”

Fix poked at the joined port and cable jack and after a moment’s exploration, reversed the action, unplugging it. He spent a few seconds scrutinizing the cable where it unspooled from just behind his wrist joint, and the little compartment that had only that morning become accessible in his forearm. This newly-apparent feature was cropping up in the mechlets one by one; as developments went, Ratchet was simply glad this one at least presented no surprises. A hardline data transference cable was easy, nice and normal.

Fix grabbed the dangling cable end and squinted down the jack end with its many adjustable connective filaments. It was full-sized, unlike just about everything else about a mechlet, so what was small and trim in most mechs’ hands looked hilariously oversized for Fix.

“Why is it for?” Fix asked, and Ratchet fought down the urge to chuckle. Cybertronian grammar did some funny tricks when it was learn-as-you-go, but three-and-a-half year old Fix seemed to know when he was being patronized and did not like it. So Ratchet only smiled and unspooled one of his own wrist cables.

“You know how we’ll look at stuff on the datapads and the holoscreens? This is one way we put the data on other devices like that. Like if I want to tell Optimus about something I saw, I could take my own memory and put it on a pad like this one, and he could see exactly what I saw.” As he spoke, Ratchet plugged himself into the datapad and uploaded a short bit of visual data.

Taken from Ratchet’s own optics, the video’s perspective stooped low and focused on a mechlet— Fix himself, smaller and rounder, the very moment he had roused from eclosion, no longer confined by a spherical shell. Ratchet’s red hand entered view, and the younger Fix grabbed it and hauled himself up to stand for the first time.

“Me!” present-day Fix exclaimed, pointing at the screen. “And that’s you! You were looking at me.”

Ratchet beamed, proud that he’d understood so quickly. “Exactly! Very good. This is one of my favorite memories.” Once upon a time Ratchet would have scoffed at such sentimentality, but Fix’s delighted grin was worth going a bit mush. A bit. Ratchet disconnected. “Do you want to try? Here, plug back in and we’ll give it a go.”

Fix reconnected his own cable and made a face of intense concentration. “What do I do?”

“Hmm.” This sort of thing was so much easier when you came pre-programmed. “Well, you send data down the cable in a packet and the datapad will store it for you. Let’s see... think about something from awhile ago. Say, as far back as you can remember. Then send it to the pad.”

“Um...” Fix hunched over the datapad. Ratchet waited patiently, wondering what, if anything, would show up.

The mind of a mechlet remained an enigma wrapped in curiosity, random tangents, and excitability, ruled by an attention span not much longer than the average movie trailer. How they recorded memory was all over the place, neurally speaking. Long-term memory storage only kicked in at around two to three years. Asking a mechlet about anything before that would garner blank stares to shrugs to _I played tag yesterday_. A surface scan for memory data got a muffled, muted blur of impressions of light and sound and broad, simple emotions. It seemed that without the preprogramming of base code, as all previous mechs had been created with, a mechlet’s processor had to grow first, _then_ organize data as processing power became available, prioritizing basic systems before memory. It explained a great deal about the mechlets’ behavior, actually.

It was also a minor disappointment to some. The sharing of amusing or interesting memories of a mech’s first days after being sparked was something of an unofficial ritual of friendship for most Cybertronians. Now, it seemed, a tradition that their newest members would have to forego.

“What was so funny back then?”

"Back when?" Ratchet leaned to look at the pad's screen. "Did you get something?"

One file, newly transferred, blinked ready on the file list. Ratchet tapped it.

"I woke up, you were laughing."

As the screen filled with static, Ratchet tried to recall if some recent morning he'd disturbed Fix's recharge. But the static cleared a little, reluctantly resolving and blooming into colors, into a heavily pixelated red, white, and grey face. It was Ratchet, framed top and bottom by dark bands, and multicolored static noise still bubbled at the periphery.

Then sound. Distorted, choppy, but recognizable— Ratchet's own voice, laughing. Then Ratchet's mouth moved as something was said; the words were muffled but Ratchet knew: _"Hey, there you are. Hi, kiddo."_

It was, after all, another of his favorite moments of recent years.

The bands of darkness— the slit opening of a mechlet's sphere-shell as seen from inside. This was Fix's first sight: the event of emergence. A true first memory, a single moment crystalized in the small processor at that first boot-up, tucked away in one instant before it had to favor system operations over data storage.

Just four seconds. And then static, and the file ended. Ratchet shook his head, smiling as he wrapped an arm about Fix's little shoulders. "A lot of you youngsters were born that same day. It was chaos— the good kind. Just one crazy, amazing thing after another happening. I was laughing at something Hoist was telling me and then there you were..."

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

One by one, the mechlets each related similar memory snippets. Only a single moment each in the first few minutes following emergence was preserved in such a manner, and it was almost immediately embraced by the mechlet-parent pairs as a special conversation. The parent got to see themselves from a unique perspective, and the mechlet would hear about how they had come into the world, how their parent had been frightened, or surprised, or excited... and the wonder of seeing their little ones open up for the first time.

Some of these tender bonding moments... went a bit differently.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Imp pointed at Prowl, loudly proclaimed _"your face!"_ and collapsed into giggles. Prowl could only respond to this with a small smile and a shrug as if to say _'I don't know what I was expecting, really.'_

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Nut and Bolt seemed to think _both_ Runabout and Runamuck were their parents, each mechlet having images of both Battlechargers' confounded expressions side-by-side. It didn't seem to matter which twin had borne which mechlet, so the quartet just went with it.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Bolide remembered a stranger's scowling face and a general sense of anxious confusion. Thundercracker, taking the diplomatic tack of not speaking ill of the stupid, simply told him that Astrotrain had not been ready to take care of a mechlet. After taking a moment to mull that over, the youngster informed Thundercracker "You're my parent anyway. I'm gonna go play with Fledge 'n them."

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

"You were _scared?_ " Riff squeaked, optics wide.

Jazz grinned and gave the mechlet's helm a playful tap. "Sure was! You were the first to come out, so I didn't know what was goin' down. Nobody to tell me what was happening— _nobody_ knew. That was a wild night, my Riff!"

Riff returned the grin and scooted closer as Jazz knelt down and pointed to a spot on the floor next to his berth.

"Right here. It was right here, first time I held you." Jazz cupped his hands together as if to grasp a ball. "You were so tiny! I didn't know what to do, and I _always_ know what to do! It was a little scary, y'know."

"I'm not scary!" Riff protested through laughter, crawling up into Jazz's lap. "You're silly."

" _You're_ silly. Of course you're not scary, I figured that out the second I saw you. You're the happy ending to my little scary story." 

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Pax remembered Megatron's face, stern and suspicious, as the first thing upon opening his shell; and reaching up to grab the massive hand that reached in. Megatron observed the recorded memory and handed the datapad back to his mechlet with a nod.

"I remember it as well," Megatron said. "from the other side. It was... very strange, to have another mech come out of me. At least you were small."

Pax, still connected to the pad with his wrist cable, tucked it under his chin and sat in thoughtful silence for a long moment. Megatron watched, wondering if the habitually reticent youngster would become a walking question generator like some other mechlets he could mention. The line between _contemplative_ and _worrying_ for Pax was practically invisible.

"Someone else," Pax said at last, looking back to the datapad. "Don't know him."

Megatron frowned. "Impossible. I was alone when you emerged."

Pax was doing some frowning of his own at the screen, and when he spoke, Megatron detected a note of real fear in his harmonics. "I don't like him." He disconnected and handed the pad to his parent.

It was a _second_ early memory. A view of the ceiling and wall of a Nemesis corridor dizzyingly swaying, and a masked, visored face looming close before the visual data flashed white just as the memory file ended.

Vortex. Megatron glanced out of the corner of his optics at Pax; the mechlet sat close next to him, and he didn't miss how Pax reached briefly for his left shoulder, perhaps unconsciously.

"What else do you remember about this? Do you remember what this mech did?"

"No." Pax drew up his knees and hugged his legs. "Just that part. Big and mean. Don't like him."

So. Even if the worst part of the incident was lost to the obscuring tendencies of a mechlet's early memory blur, Pax on some level retained an impression of the trauma. "This mech," said Megatron, "is far away from here. He's not welcome on Earth or Cybertron any longer. You have nothing to fear from him."

"...okay." Pax curled up even further, as if trying to summon the security of his former sphere chamber shape.

Megatron set the datapad aside. "What's this? You doubt me?" he asked. Pax looked up, already relaxing out of his tension, recognizing the teasing bluster Megatron reserved only for him, their private joke. "Do you think this coward would dare challenge me, Lord of all Decepticons, while I still function?"

"No," Pax half-laughed, burying his shy smile in the crook of Megatron's arm.

"Then listen well." Megatron put his hand on Pax's helm. "Those who wish to do you harm may be big and mean, but you have _me_. And I am _bigger_ , and _meaner_. They will have to get past me. Understand?"

Megatron punctuated that last word with a quick drumming of his fingers on the mechlet's helm plating, eliciting a rare full giggle. "Yes, understand!"

"Good. Remember that, instead of the face of someone unworthy of your fear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron's parenting approach not a little inspired by a certain Kratos, I'll admit.


End file.
